


We Pick Ourselves Undone

by StilesInTheGlade



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: I mean Stiles was bound to be a little messed up after that, M/M, Post-Nogitsune, vaguely ptsd?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-26
Updated: 2014-03-26
Packaged: 2018-01-17 01:42:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1369291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StilesInTheGlade/pseuds/StilesInTheGlade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was a habit, maybe even a compulsion, that Derek noticed in the aftermath of the Nogitsune. Stiles would periodically count off his fingers. One by one, from the thumb of his left hand to the thumb of his right, long fingers ticking as he marked them off, lips silently moving along, one, two, three…</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Pick Ourselves Undone

**Author's Note:**

> So I was... a little nutso about this whole thing with Stiles. And by a little I mean a lot. Here's vaguely schmoopy Sterek to make us all feel better.  
> It ma even be a little introspective for Stiles, because I was really interested in what all the aftermath of this would be.

It was a habit, maybe even a compulsion, that Derek noticed in the aftermath of the Nogitsune. Stiles would periodically count off his fingers. One by one, from the thumb of his left hand to the thumb of his right, long fingers ticking as he marked them off, lips silently moving along, one, two, three…

Derek knew why; they all knew. He was checking for extra fingers.

It was the same reason Stiles always had a book with him now, sometimes several. When he was dreaming he couldn’t read, he said the letters would dance across the page, indecipherable and like dyslexia times about seven million.

Stiles always counted his fingers the most when he and Derek were together; Stiles would be plastered to Derek’s side, making some dry comment about smothering in Derek’s “rippling pectorals” and while he spoke, Derek would feel Stiles’ fingers flexing against his skin as they were counted off.

Derek would let Stiles finish; he knew better than to interrupt something like that, something reality affirming, and then curl his own hands around Stiles’ pressing his lips to each long finger. “One,” he’d whisper, “two, three…”

And Derek would hear Stiles heartbeat, always slightly erratic, slow to something that could be called calm. Content. Stiles would just smile through the whole thing, warm and slightly watery, until Derek was done and he could press their lips together. “You’re kind of the best, you know that right?” Stiles had a habit of looking up through his ridiculously long eyelashes, eyes large, caramel colored and shadowed from the long nights he still spent awake. Still unwilling to trust himself to sleep, despite how much he needed it.

“You tell me daily.” Derek said back, lips twitching into a smile. And Stiles did. At least once, sometimes twelve times a day he reminded Derek how amazing he was, how loved he was because it was true, and with the new arrival of a very much alive Kate Argent, Derek needed to hear it, and Stiles loved to say it.

“Good. Don’t let me forget. I think it a lot but sometimes I forget to speak it out loud because I forget you’re not actually a mind reader.” It was mild as far as Stiles tendency to ramble went, and Derek indulgently let him continue, “And I really hate to forget, because you’re amazing and you deserve to have someone tell you every second of every day.” Stiles paused for breath, tilting his head to press his lips against Derek’s jaw. “God, you’re so perfect sometimes I don’t believe this is real.” Stiles paused, “A lot of the time I don’t believe this is real.” He amended. “And then when I’m checking you just… you know I’m doing it, but you don’t interrupt me to try and reassure me, you wait until I’ve checked for myself and then you reassure me and that means the world.” Stiles was smiling again, that small, watery smile that only seemed to appear when it’s Derek it’s aimed at.

“Even if you do forget to tell me, I know. Your whole being practically screams it at me, Stiles.” Derek nudged the space behind Stiles’ ear with his nose, breath disturbing the short hairs there. “You smell like me, and like us, and like contentment and sunlight and happiness.” Derek pressed a kiss to Stiles skin. “And your eyes can’t hide anything. Every little emotion that flares through you explodes in your eyes. Fuck, sometimes I miss everything you say because I’m too busy watching your eyes.”

“I knew you weren’t listening. I didn’t know why, though.” Stiles smiled shyly up at Derek and it still amazed him how bold Stiles could be when he was the one with something to say, but how bashful he got whenever someone (Derek) would return the favor.

Kissing Stiles was familiar and new and terrifying and wonderful all at the same time. Derek was used to the press of chapped lips, the beat of Stiles’ pulse under his fingertips, long fingers clutching at his hair even as they ticked off one by one, but the way his stomach swoops, the beat of his own heart racing to match Stiles’, the mantra of mine, yes, always that ran through his mind as if on a loop managed to catch him by surprise every single time.

It terrified him.

It was his favorite thing.

Stiles was a predictably enthusiastic kisser; he would press himself as close to Derek as he possibly could, wind around his body like a particularly determined octopus, and then coax Derek’s mouth open with insistent teeth and tongue.

Derek didn’t mind; he in turn kissed like he wanted to devour Stiles; pressing just as close and cradling the back of Stiles’ head, the side of his neck, his hip, wherever his hand happened to land, and opening under Stiles’ probing, licking into Stiles’ mouth but never dominating.

They gave as good as they got and they could stay just like that for hours.

When they finally broke apart Stiles kept his forehead pressed to Derek’s, kept his eyes closed and his breathing shallow. Derek’s eyes fluttered open and his hand trailed from where it had been tangled in the ever growing mess that was Stiles’ hair; he traced the darkening shadows under Stiles’ eyes. “God, Stiles when was the last time you slept?”

Stiles’ eyes blinked open, his eyelashes tickling the pad of Derek’s thumb. “I forget.”

“You forget? Stiles!” Derek hissed, wincing as he got a feel of just how tired Stiles was, black lines racing up his arm.

“I have nightmares, okay?” Stiles carefully turned his head, shrugging off Derek’s hand. “I can hardly blink my eyes without seeing Allison’s face… sleeping is worse. Not only do see all the people I hurt in vivid Technicolor, but as an added bonus I get the underlying fear that the second I’m asleep I’ll do it again.” Stiles pointedly kept his eyes on the ugly fabric of the sofa over Derek’s shoulder, fingers clenching and unclenching against Derek’s shirt, “Or worse.” His voice broke and Derek cupped his cheek again, stroking his thumb over the sharp jut of his cheekbone.

“Hey, he’s dead.” Derek said firmly, tilting Stiles’ head back until he had no choice but to meet Derek’s eyes. “He’s dead, and not coming back.”

Stiles nodded, exhaling out of his nose sharply like he’d forgotten to breathe, “Yeah. Yeah I know it’s just…”

“Just?” Derek prompted; he’d known Stiles hadn’t told him everything about being possessed. He’d told him a lot, sure, but not everything. Not the thing that was making him constantly check off his fingers and spontaneously open a book while walking.

Stiles scrunched his eyes shut for a moment, seeming to steel himself, before slowly meeting Derek’s gaze again. “He… It had access to my memories. All of them. Everything I knew it knew. It knew about Peter biting Scott and Lydia, Jackson becoming the Kanima and Lydia saving him with true-infatuations-kiss or whatthefuckever. It knew about Kate. About you. About the fire and what she did. It knew what you were to me.” Stiles took in a shaky breath, keeping his eyes locked with Derek’s because if he looked away he wouldn’t finish. “It would taunt me, whenever I got feisty. It would ask me what I thought would happen if it set the house on fire and we just sat there. How you would feel when you found us. It would bring up the memory of Boyd, of your face when he died, and just leave it there, burning into my eyelids. Derek, I woke up with matches in my hand.” Stiles seemed to collapse as the last word left his mouth, sagging into Derek like he was a puppet who’s strings had been cut, though his fingers still twitched nonstop, as if as soon as he finished counting he’d start again.

Derek’s arms came up to wrap around Stiles automatically while he tried to process what Stiles had told him. “Why didn’t it ever do it?” He finally asked, voice broken and raw.

Stiles flicked his eyes up, “Because I wouldn’t let it.” He said like it was the most obvious thing in the universe; as obvious as if someone said Lydia was a genius, Isaac was a master of the puppy eyes, or that Scott had loved Allison up until her very last breath and then kept loving her. Stiles sat up a little straighter, as if he hadn’t just relaxed against Derek a few moments before, “Derek Hale, my life, while a walk in the park compared to the epic amounts of bullshit you’ve had to wade through, hasn’t been a barrel of laughs. I’ve always been the weird kid, my mom died when I was eleven, my best friend was bitten by a werewolf, my friends are dropping like flies around me, and I was just possessed by a fucking homicidal fox spirit…” Stiles paused, pursing his lips, “I’m not sure exactly where I was going with this, but the point I was trying to make here was that you are the best thing that has ever happened to me. And I may only be a hundred and thirty three pounds of pale flesh and fragile bone, but I will still burn down the fucking world to keep you safe.”

When Derek kissed Stiles again, hard and fast and desperate, Stiles’ fingers remained still against his chest.


End file.
